


Punishing the Wicked

by WL_Erkling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7666486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WL_Erkling/pseuds/WL_Erkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellatrix Lestrange has upset the Dark Lord-bad enough to warrant punishment at the hands of Fenrir Greyback. While she tries desperately to escape what may be a long and terrible night, Fenrir only has eyes for Bella. [Bellatrix/ Fenrir] </p><p>Trigger Warnings: implied non-con, aggressive/ violent sex</p><p>
  <a href="http://s1248.photobucket.com/user/wlerkling/media/Punishing%20the%20Wicked_zpsy8yt6m3j.jpg.html"></a>
  <img/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishing the Wicked

Disclaimer: Characters, settings, and themes from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I neither own, nor am making profit from the writing or sharing of this story.

* * *

 

 

            “I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean to displease.” Supplication and lies—each and every word. She looked demure enough, a slight bow to the head and chin.

            “I tire of your games Bella. It is time you are punished for your misbehavior.” His tongue lingered on the “s” in the last word, drawing out the syllable before dropping his tone dramatically low. “Greyback.”

            “Yes.” The werewolf did not move.

            “Bella is yours for the evening.” A deep, satisfied moan rumbled through the man across the room.

            “My lord, I—” Bellatrix stepped forward, toward Voldemort. He slapped her, halting anything she’d been about to do.

            “No; this time you have gone too far.”

            “But, my lord. Surely _you_ can punish me. I would gladly be under your wand.” Eyes wide, she held her hands together, fidgeting just a little more than usual.

            “I tire of this.” He turned to walk away and she reached out for him.

            “Crucio!” Her back bent at an awkward angle. Gurgling came from her pretty, pouty lips. For once, Bella struggled to maintain composure instead of letting caution to the wind. She grasped tightly to her robe. It draped toward the floor, but she pulled it to her body, clutching as it whirled in mid-air. As the intensity of the spell increased, each spasm of her back shook a bit of her loose. Her legs could not stay still. Arms were flailing a bit, as the pain began to hone in on her head. In one, desperate move, she dug her nails into the sides of her scalp and drug them downward, loosing a shrill cry. He released her, letting her slump to the floor in a heap of black indignity.

            “Perhaps you deserve to be with the dog more than I thought if you’re going to act like one.” Fenrir’s lip curled up and he considered pulling the wand from his pocket, wisely deciding otherwise.

            “My lord, he is a _werewolf_. You know what he does to those… things he plays with. You cannot—” Voldemort’s wand didn’t move; his lips didn’t utter a single syllable. Bellatrix was pushed to her knees, head cowed and hands on the floor.

            “Do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do, Bell-a-trix.” He drug out her name as if it tasted foreign on his tongue. She looked up to see Fenrir palming himself through his trousers. She sneered in disgust and inched her fingers toward her wand. Once it was securely in the palm of her hand, she lifted it and took a deep breath.

            “Diffindo!”

            “Protego.” The word was calm, but the shield was up before Bellatrix’s spell came close to hitting Greyback. “Expelliarmus.” Bella gaped as her wand flew into Voldemort’s hand. “You will not be needing this tonight.” A sharp intake of breath was all he needed to hear before he continued, hand held up to stop her. Her confused stare went back and forth between the two. “Greyback. She stays breathing. No permanent maiming. Nothing that can’t be healed.” The werewolf’s smirk shifted; he seemed a bit disappointed at this, but nodded.

            Voldemort’s robe swept the floor around him as he turned from all eyes left in the room. Bellatrix attempted to launch herself at him, but was stopped mid-motion by a strong pair of arms and the unpleasant sensation of dread. She did not get to see the worried looks some of the death eaters shared, nor the secret smiles the rest could not hide. Bellatrix was not everyone’s favorite, after all.

            Fenrir hefted Bella’s weight over his shoulder, her kicking legs kneeing him in the ribs. He grunted, attempting to hold her still. She slumped a bit when he slapped her arse with an open palm hard enough for her to yelp. “Stop, it, wench.” She huffed and retaliated with nails digging down his spine. He laughed.

            The walk down to the dungeons was one the werewolf knew well. Staircases grew narrow and the lights dimmed a bit. Candles were the only source of light here and they were sparse. Each flickered as the pair stalked past. He steered them toward the last cell; it was in a shadowed corner of the chamber with the distinct smell of mildew coming from the walls. The cell door was open, but it was not inviting.

            Bellatrix was tossed casually to the floor. She crouched in the corner, hissing and holding onto the nearest bar for balance. Her head cocked to the side when the door slammed shut. Fenrir grinned, a lopsided snarl of sorts. As he stalked forward, she moved around him, staying hunched low to the ground and ready to strike. When thick hands reached out to grab her, the feral woman squalled and clawed at his face until she was free again.

            “You bitch!”

            There was no more playing around. His wand was now in his hand. Fingers gripped the shaft and released. A stinging hex flew toward her and she dodged, rolling and barely getting out of the way. Another followed, a volley coming at her. When one landed across her thigh, she dropped to her knees with a soft grunt. That was when he lunged.

            She felt his arms wrap around her waist and she began thrashing. He squeezed tighter, feeling the soft buckle of her ribs before he released—but not enough for her to get away. One hand went up to her wild mane of black curls, gripping hard enough to wrench her head back. That small movement pulled her back against him. She felt his thick length through the trousers between them and groaned, though in what manner it was hard to tell.  

            Harsh breathing accompanied the shiver she could not stop as a tongue bathed the side of her neck, working its way up to just below her ear. Just when she thought he was done, he crowded her down toward the floor, bit harshly into the flesh he’d tasted, and ground roughly against her arse. She wailed and splayed her hands out to keep her face from taking the full brunt of her fall. Just a bit of scuffing to the chin, but nothing broken—yet. When she thought that Fenrir was slowing, backing away, he loosened his teeth and lapped at the indentations there.  A savage growl fell from between clenched jaws, then, as he grabbed the back of her robe and hefted it up.

            Now exposed, he saw the alabaster of her flesh as yet unmarked. The only obstruction were the soft, clean lines of her knickers. Still holding a bouquet of her hair, he used the leverage to shove her face into the floor. Behind her, his other hand trailed back, one thumb hooking under the edge of the fabric. He licked his lips. Just then, she attempted to roll to the side. Unfortunately, her legs tangled in the fabric of her robe and his hold on her hair prevented her from moving away from him. She had, however, managed to move about a foot forward. He hooked an arm beneath her thigh, flipped her over, and drug her back toward him. This time, he was neither gentle, nor slow.

            As Bellatrix’s body met his, Fenrir hastily shoved the robe out of the way, tearing at her knickers. They ripped and fell to the floor. Bellatrix scrambled, her fingers starting to bruise and several long nails breaking against the stone. She, too, demonstrated a penchant for growling as the werewolf fumbled with his trousers, pulled his cock out, and sheathed himself in her with one harsh, awkward thrust. She gasped as he nearly missed her entrance, wincing as he slid deep into her. His eager withdrawal gave her just a breath’s time to brace before he slammed home again. She tried to stagger forward, away from the brutal force, but his hold on her never wavered. Instead, she fell to the floor and tried to twist away again. Fenrir let her this time, catching her when she’d rolled onto her back and was attempting to scoot back.

            In this position, she could see the wicked gleam in his eyes. Even in the dim light, she could see his haggard clothing in a disarray around him and his cock jutting out, red and angry toward her. He snarled, pouncing, almost, so that he landed on top of her. She tried to ignore the faint smell of wet dog, but when his teeth once again aimed for her throat, she reached around him and tried to grip one shoulder for some leverage. Fenrir lowered himself further, grabbing her free hand and pinning it to the floor, angling back and gripping the other so hard that she actually squealed before releasing and bringing it forward. Once both hands were pinned above her head, he reached down, angled himself toward her and rocked his hips.

            For a moment, they locked eyes and lay there breathing—just one moment before Fenrir’s body began to move on top of her, against her, inside of her. There were gasps and moans between them. Some were captured between the cavern of chest and mouth. Some were shattered against unwilling bodies that thrashed against each other. Several times, Bellatrix struggled to break free, but Fenrir subdued her. All the while, he drove into her, feeling that warmth wrap around him.  This was perhaps the only time he felt close to something, to someone. He let himself truly sink into her—to the flesh and the woman and the heat, and spilled into her stolen embrace.

            His body fell atop her, slick with sweat and chest heaving with exertion. Perhaps it was just the after-coitus lethargy that kept him there, but Bellatrix could not move from beneath his weight. She could barely breathe. A few rapid thoughts passed before she realized that he’d fallen asleep. Outraged, she lifted her head enough to lock her teeth on his ear and bite firmly. Fenrir jerked back, understanding a little too late that he was attached to the woman under him. He bellowed, batting at her. She took a paw to the side of her face before he moved enough she could squirm away. Back against the wall, she took a defensive crouched position and waited. Fenrir merely sat back on his arse and laughed. He collected his wand and healed the bite, leaving the scratch marks and other small wounds.

            “Wench.” He’d mumbled it, but she heard it, all the same. After a brief respite, he walked over to the mattress in the corner of the cell. Bellatrix had looked it over earlier, but paid it no mind. Dropping down onto the grungy thing, Fenrir was huddled asleep again without another thought. Bellatrix tried several times to get his wand, but each time she attempted to cross the barrier of the mattress, she was repelled with a vicious zapping hex.

            Two more times he woke and took her before exhaustion forced her weary vigilance into sleep. Hours later, Fenrir stood over her, watching as her breathing remained quiet and even. He’d worn them both out, but her body actively worked to heal the many injuries they’d inflicted together. Fingers wove through his hair, combing knots out of the tangled mess. Sniffing himself, he grunted. Good enough for the masses until he could shower.

            “Wake up, bitch.” Sharp. The pain in her shoulder was sharp as his heel ground the bone into the floor. Her eyes shot open, only for her body to retreat further against the wall.  Fenrir grinned and shot a “ _stupefy!_ ” toward her before reaching down, hefting her weight on his shoulder, and unwarding his cell door.

            An entire room of whispers and conversations hushed as Fenrir stalked into the room, Bellatrix’s still body slung over his shoulder. Some began quiet chatter anew, but others stared openly at the proud display. When he reached the center of the room, her unmoving form was dumped to lay prone on the marble floor.

            Voldemort hissed, wand out and pointed toward Fenrir in the span of a breath. “I told you not to kill her.” The sounds rolling off his tongue were soft, but they grew louder and more strained as he went on.

            Fenrir grinned, using the toe of his boot to smash against Bella’s ribs. She coughed—a harsh, wracking cough, and spluttered blood all over the rough hide of his floor-bound foot. The werewolf laughed, then. “She ain’t dead.” He turned to leave as Voldemort walked over to Bellatrix. She was lifting herself from the floor, wincing as her abused shoulder protested even that little bit of use.

            A wand was thrown at her feet. Fingers wrapped around the handle and her eyes closed. In between the gawking and Fenrir’s smooth retreat, Bellatrix shrieked. Perhaps shriek is not the right word; a banshee’s cry might better suit. She lifted her wand, pointed it toward her jailer’s legs and bellowed an, “Incarcerous!” Instantly, Fenrir was dropped to the ground, flailing to get the lashings undone, but failing. His eyes widened as he saw Voldemort turn to Bellatrix, cupping her chin.

            “Now, now, Bella. You know that you deserved your punishment.” Her nod was sickeningly enthusiastic.

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “So why attack the man I chose to carry out my will?” His fingers were tightening slowly.

            “I accept your punishment, my lord. I want a treat now.” A raised eyebrow greeted her request.

            “What is it that you want?”

            “The wolf. I won’t kill him, of course.” Her sadistic grin was back, followed by a short cackle. She wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth and stuck the finger in, savoring the taste.

            “Oh, you _do_ like to play games.” He paused, pretending to think it over. “No killing—only maiming. Same rules.” Voldemort summoned Fenrir’s wand and the man’s eyes bulged, feeling the panic settle low in his stomach like an old piece of meat.

            “Yes, my lord. Thank you.” She was on her knees now, bowing low to the ground.

            “Go. Get him out of my sight.”

            “Yes, my lord.” She struggled to rise and Voldemort stepped back to watch her with amused eyes. He raised his chin when she was finally on her own two feet, licking split and bloodied lips. She hobbled toward her prey, seeing the worm-like wriggle on the floor and basking in the joy that would be forthcoming. A hovering charm worked well enough for her. She refused to carry the bastard.

            “Do you think they’ll ever tire of their games?”

            “No, Lucius.” The blonde stood before him, crisp grey robes freshly tailored.

            “It’s unseemly.” The elder Malfoy paused for a moment, rolling it over on his tongue. “As if they think we’ve yet to figure it out.” He paused. “They all have their secrets, I suppose.” He gestured to the death eaters around him with his cane. When it landed on Rabastan Lestrange, it faltered just enough to be noticeable, if one was watching carefully.

            “As do you, Lucius.” Voldemort reached out, hand squeezing one of the blonde’s shoulders until the grip was uncomfortable. “As do you.” Malfoy looked up in time to watch as Lord Voldemort offered his arm and escorted Narcissa from the room.


End file.
